


The Parting Glass

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Late-life, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 18:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15515592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This was inspired by a friend posting this lovely version of The Parting Glass by Face Vocal Band. I like it as much as I like the one the Wailin' Jennys have up. Gorgeous, sentimental, and forever a trigger to stories: there's something about the idea of that final drink that begs for story after story.  This is sweet, dark, smoky, with a happy resolution.





	The Parting Glass

The party was over. The elegant, stately room provided by the Diogenes was almost empty, the lights dimmed, even the cleaning people gone, leaving a few filled trash bins to be taken out in the morning, and a full dishwasher in the kitchen to be run when the first shift came in. All that remained was a big, echoing room, the flickering remains of the fire in the graceful Georgian fireplace in its marble surround, a bottle of aged single-malt on the mantle, and two men standing in the wavering firelight, shot glasses in hand.

“End of an era,” Greg Lestrade said, embarrassed to find his voice gruff with feeling.

“No more than was your own retirement,” Mycroft Holmes replied. He gave a crooked grin. “An event more deeply mourned than this was, too. Let us be honest, friend, my retirement is a blessed relief for more than me.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Aye, well. It didn’t slow me down, did it? Between you and Sherlock I’m still in the thick of things, and that’s like to continue even now Anthea’s taken the reins. As for mourning—not hardly. It was just better attended, thanks to the fondness my people had for a free bar at the Feathers. Drink-sodden bastards, the lot of ‘em.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed, softly. He held the shot-glass beneath his beaky nose, and took a deep breath. “Almost too good to drink,” he said. “I should pour it back, and try again next year, come this time.” He risked a glance at his…associate. “Perhaps you’d come share the bottle again?”

Lestrade refused to meet his eye. “Sherlock says you’re leaving London. Says it’s a long drive out to the ‘estate.’” The word ‘estate’ sounded alien on his lips—and sounded equally distrusted. Lestrade wasn’t sure what a man like him did on an estate—other than tug his forelock and murmur things like “Yes, m’lud.”

“I’d drive in to town just for the privilege of your company,” Mycroft said, hoping that didn’t sound as desperate as it actually was. “We could meet here. Make a ritual of it. Every year on the anniversary of my retirement we could meet and share a toast. To…better times.” And that, he thought, was verging on maudlin, and the frog in his throat knew it. Another word or two and he’d be croaking sobs, not sentences.

It was, he thought, the end of an era…and the start of emptiness.

Why had he not prepared for this day?

“What are you going to do out there,” Greg asked, as though telepathic. “Keep horses? Judge jam at the WI fete? Host the local gymkhana?”

“I daresay,” Mycroft muttered. “Read books. Garden.”

“The poor roses won’t know what hit ‘em. I daresay you’re a stern man with a pair of secateurs. Prune ‘em to within an inch of their lives.”

“Now, now, I’ve always believed in reserve in all things.”

Lestrade’s head ducked over the shot glass, and his voice was rough as he replied, “So you have. So you have… To reserve.” He raised the glass, but before he could drink he was cut off.

“No!”

He looked at his companion. Mycroft blinked at him, eyes large and lost.

“No—please. Not that. I can accept ‘to better times,’ or ‘old friends’ or whatever. But not to reserve. It’s just—No.”

Lestrade nodded, not quite sure why it was wrong, but not wanting to continue whatever had caused his companion such obvious dismay. “Whatever. What about just to you—to Mycroft Holmes? You had a good run, lad. You did yourself and your nation proud. So—to you.”

Mycroft sighed. “If necessary. But—perhaps just to better days to come? I’d like to think…I’d like to think that this will turn out to be the start of a new era, not just the end of an old one.”

Lestrade gave a weary grimace, and tried yet again. “To a new era.”

At last, slowly, Mycroft raised his own glass, and tapped it against Lestrade’s. “To a new era.” He sent the shot hurtling down his throat, head back, for all the world like a wild Slav making a show with vodka, rather than the quiet Englishman he was. He gasped, then hurled the glass into the back of the fireplace, where it exploded in fragments, the last traces of alcohol burning off in a single flare.

Lestrade watched, wide-eyed, then silently downed his own, as quickly if not as dramatically. He sent his own glass into the flames, too—though the glass didn’t break, the alcohol made a pretty display.

“Well, then,” he said, roughly.

“Yes. Well. End of an era,” Mycroft muttered, not looking at the other man. “I’ve arranged cab service for you. For all the few who I consider close. Just go to the front desk and ask for a car. It’s under your own name.”

“Thanks. Thoughtful of you.”

“The least I could do after all these years.”

“You had me driven often enough as it was, sunshine.”

And then they were out of words. Lestrade sighed, settled his evening jacket, cleared his throat, and turned away.

He was listening to hear one last word. One more comment. One dry, acerbic quip. One shy, stilted compliment. Even a cold farewell. None came. He left, then.

In the room Mycroft remained, head down, hands hanging empty at his sides.

He knew his life wasn’t over. He was too useful to be set aside for long. Anthea and her allies would be back soon, calling, skyping, sending top secret emails, asking for help with this and advice with that. But it would no longer be his kingdom. He was no longer the British Government, and knowing that, he realized he had no idea what he was when that was done. A man with a mad sister, a half-mad brother, two aging parents who despised him. A man with an estate and extensive gardens. A man who was willing enough to take up dressage riding again. A man with almost forty years of best sellers to read and movies and television shows to watch. But, in the end, a man alone.

Who are you if you’re not part of a network of relationships? To be the British Government had been to be wrapped in relationships—regal and common, political and cultural, military and diplomatic, secret and overt. He had been the man all those intersecting bonds defined—the open space in the center of it all, given shape and meaning by the place he filled.

What was he now?

What would he become?

And, more softly, he asked himself, what had he lost? What precious, tattered remains had just slipped through his fingers?

He walked to the fireplace and picked up the cast-iron tongs, gingerly plucking the heat-crazed, smoky-stained shot glass from the embers. He squatted at the hearth as he set it to cool, pulling out his handkerchief and spreading it out, then hovering his fingers over the glass trying to determine if it was safe to wrap yet.

“Mike?”

He shot up, accidentally setting the glass skittering with the tip of his slim Italian shoe. Without meaning to he automatically leaped to save it, scorching his fingers, swearing, and falling to the carpet.

“Damn-damn-damn. Get it up, please? It’s going to set the rug alight… watch your fingers.”

Lestrade hunkered down, pulling his own kerchief out of his pocket, folding it, and grabbing the glass. He stretched long and set the glass gently on the marble hearth stones.

“Trying to save the Diogenes the cost of a shot glass?” he asked, quietly.

Mycroft’s mouth tightened. He shook his fingers, pretending to be aware of nothing but the sting. “I’m going to blister,” he said, resentfully. “Nasty.”

“Not my fault,” Lestrade pointed out. “I just came in to see…”

“What?”

The silence hung between them—Mycroft on his knees, nursing hurt fingers, Lestrade squatting low a mere foot or so away, both in the dimness, shimmering with ember-light.

At last Lestrade sighed. “Nothing, I suppose. I just wasn’t quite ready for it to end.”

“For what to end?”

“I don’t know. This. Whatever we had. Whatever we were. One more drink. One more meal talking about Sherlock. One more case we collaborated on that no one but the highest levels ever knew about. Whatever it was…I want you to know, those really were the best of times. Working with you. I’ll…miss them.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s voice was dry and crisp and formal—the most rigid version of his now-lost self. The Iceman. The British Government. “Yes. You’re right. Good times. Thank you.”

“What were you doing, Mycroft?”

“As you said. Saving the Diogenes the cost of a shot glass.”

“Generous of you.” Lestrade stood. “I’ll miss you, Mike.”

“Mycroft. Not Mike—Mycroft.”

“Whatever. I’ll miss you.”

“You know how to reach me.”

“I suppose I do.” The former policeman shifted from shoe to shoe, unsure of himself—as he always was with this man. At last he turned, and started away.

“No!”

He turned back. Mycroft had straightened, still on his knees, still nursing his hurt hand, but focused only on Lestrade.

“Don’t go,” he said. “I—was being a bit of a fool. Saving the glass. A…memento.”

“Memento?”

“Of better days. Of...the best days.”

They studied each other—both reserved, both past the age of startled surmises. This was not so much a surprise as an unplanned surrender…on Mycroft’s side, at least. It remained to be seen what Lestrade would do. He was, in his way, no less a private man than the great Iceman.

At last he stepped forward. “Here. Let me give you a hand up.” He offered his.

Mycroft hesitated, then reached back, clinging tight. He allowed himself the luxury of Lestrade’s support as he rose.

They stood together, face to face, mere inches between them, hands clasped, eyes locked.

“I miss you already,” Mycroft said at last.

“You know how to reach me,” Lestrade replied, with a mischievous grin. Then he leaned in and drifted a chaste kiss over Mycroft’s lips. “That what you were hoping for, Sunshine?”

“I never dared hope.”

“Then dare.” With that, Lestrade turned brisk. He tidied the other man’s jacket, leaned down and collected the shot-glass wrapped in his kerchief, dropped it in the pocket of his overcoat, and smiled. “Come along, sweetheart. Yours or mine?”

“Mine. It’s just across the road.”

“Makes life simple. Shame about the lad who’s missing giving me a taxi ride, though.”

“I’m sure I’ll use him again sometime,” Mycroft murmured, and walked away beside his associate, his companion, his friend—his beloved.

Then the room was empty, all but the last few flickers of the fire, and from a distant room the faint sound of someone singing “The Parting Glass” in intricate harmony, and infinite sweetness.


End file.
